When life gives you a baby
by LeFay Strent
Summary: The Kirkland brothers find a baby on their doorstep. Oh dear.


**Scotland - Alistair**

 **N. Ireland - Patrick**

 **Wales - Rhys**

 **Disclaimer: I am American. I apologize to all British people for any inaccuracies in their characterization. I tried.**

* * *

When Rhys opened the front door to retrieve the morning paper, he thought he hallucinated the baby on the doorstep. Babies aren't part of the morning routine. Wake up, visit the loo, then trudge downstairs to snatch the newspaper before his brothers could get it. That was the routine. Nothing more. No babies.

So Rhys tried to do the last step over by stepping back and closing the door. He took a breath, then opened the door again.

This time the hallucination stared at him with beady baby eyes.

Rhys thrummed his fingers on the doorsill, tilting his head sideways as he considered what lay before him. Though Rhys knew nothing about kids, he figured the small, pudgy thing couldn't be more than five months. Lord knew what the gender could be, just that it had tan skin and a fuzzy, dark mop atop its head. Also, a cheery white and yellow dotted blanket wrapped the infant securely in a burrito shape, allowing the tiny human to rest comfortably with its head upon the middle of the folded newspaper.

Rhys leaned forward, searching for any way around the child. Alas, he found no way around the paper's guardian and could not retrieve the paper.

"Huh," Rhys said softly before closing the door once more. With no other choice, he strode to the kitchen where his youngest brother would doubtlessly be.

And there he was, hovering above the stove, brooding over what could be sausage dying in the skillet.

"Arthur, there's a baby on the doorstep," Rhys informed him.

"Hm," Arthur hummed, groggily poking at the withering meat. If Rhys could read minds, his brother's might sound like this: _I don't think this is supposed to be black. Maybe if I poke it enough, it'll magically turn edible._

These of course are very serious considerations to have, especially where the most important meal of the day is concerned, so Rhys could understand how Arthur might miss his comment. He'd just have to find help elsewhere.

Rhys left the room and went to bother the eldest brother who would doubtlessly be finishing up his morning shower by now. A quick climb up the stairs and Rhys was knocking at the closed bathroom door.

"What?"

The word itself was nearly garbled beyond comprehension. Ah, so he must have been brushing his teeth.

"I need your help, Alistair," Rhys said, raising his voice slightly above his usual soft timbre in order to be heard.

The sound of water spraying in the sink, followed by spitting encouraged Rhys to wait. Sure enough, Alistair opened the door a moment later. Steam filtered out past his tall frame. He'd yet to put a shirt on, so his skin was still slightly damp, as was his slicked-back red hair.

"Help with what?" Alistair demanded. He didn't wait for an answer as a scent disturbed his nose. He grimaced, "Christ, what died?"

"Arthur's culinary skill."

Alistair snorted, "That was never alive in the first place. How many times do I have to tell that brat not to waste food by poisoning it?" The elder shrugged past his sibling to go stand by the stair railing and yell downward. "Arthur! You're stinking up the whole house with your shite!"

A moment of silence and. . . .

" _Fuck off!_ "

"Your mum!" Alistair yelled back, knowing that the petty insult would drive Arthur up the walls. Of course, they all shared the same mother. She just wasn't home at the moment. Something about getting to rediscover the vivacity of youth now that her sons were more or less men and could (debatably) take care of themselves. So she went backpacking through Europe or Canada or wherever suited her fancy. They never knew where until she sent a postcard.

"Alistair," Rhys intercepted his shouting siblings. "Can you help me?"

"With what? Why don't you go ask Patrick?" he asked, not moving from the railing where Rhys suspected he was debating what witty insult to throw down next.

"Patrick's not here," Rhys reminded him.

"Oh right, he died."

"He went to university, Alistair."

"Our brother, thou art in Heaven."

Rhys sighed. Some days he really did miss the second eldest brother. Although Patrick could be considered as the most normal one of the family, Rhys didn't hold that against him. Out of anyone, Rhys felt like he could talk to Patrick the most openly and he would receive him readily. Never mind most of the things Rhys told him would go over his head, poor normal soul that he was. It wasn't Patrick's fault that Rhys had a delicate eccentric nature, the likes of which mere mortals found perplexing. If only he could find someone that could resonate with him, could withstand the complexities of his mind, and warm his heart with understanding. Should he meet such a person, Rhys would be swift to give them a pebble, just like the penguins do, and have little baby penguins with them. . . .

Wasn't there something he meant to do?

Oh, right, penguin baby.

"Alistair, there's a baby," he tried again.

The elder nodded, "Right, baby. . . . Wait, baby? What're you talking about?"

Rhys pointed past the stair railing where the front door was visible. "I went to get the paper and there's a baby sitting out there."

"You shitting me?" Alistair asked, brow arched high. "What, like a baby squirrel?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, it's human," Rhys replied.

Alistair frowned, eyes fixed on his brother for signs of joking. It was a useless endeavor, as no one could ever tell the difference for when Rhys joked or was being serious. Rhys let him work it out for himself and started down the stairs, assuming that Alistair would follow.

And he did. Every Kirkland had an insatiable curiosity, and coupled with their penchant for fearlessness (though their mother called it 'stupidity'), they readily took on any mystery or challenge. Alistair was no exception, perhaps the worst, second to Patrick that is. For all of Patrick's good sense, he was incredibly gullible.

"What do you mean there's a baby? Like someone left their kid there?" Alistair questioned, thumping down the stairs after Rhys.

Rhys shrugged. "Last time I checked, babies aren't very mobile, so yeah, someone probably left it there."

"You're shitting me," Alistair repeated, though he still went to the front door and opened it. His eyes immediately found the small, squirming form there and he startled so badly that he slammed the door closed again. "Fuck, you weren't shitting me," he said, nearly breathless. Then he opened the door again, just to make sure that the first time wasn't a fluke.

There the baby laid still, eyes watching the brothers in the doorway. It smiled, thinking them to be funny.

"Good God. . . ." Alistair whispered. "A baby."

"So you see it too," Rhys commented.

Alistair whirled on him. "Rhys, you pillock, why in the bloody hell didn't you say something earlier? For Christ's sake, why'd you just leave the thing there?"

Rhys blinked at him. "Because if you interact with a hallucination, it'll make it harder to get rid of. I couldn't take that chance."

A strangled scream rose from Alistair, and Rhys couldn't help but to think that he might be the reason for it.

"What's the rub?" Arthur asked, stepping up behind them. He must have given up on his charcoal and come to see why they were being so loud.

Rhys looked to him. "I think Alistair is mildly alarmed."

"Mildly? _Mildly?!_ " Alistair shouted. "Arthur, there's a fucking baby outside our door, and this shithead thought it was imaginary."

"Not imaginary. A hallucination. There's a difference."

Alistair may have considered murder in that moment, if only briefly.

"A baby?" Arthur asked and stepped between the two to break the tension. The youngest brother started at the sight of the bundled child, and hastily went over to it. He knelt down on the stone step, getting closer to inspect the poor thing yet not touching it yet, as if he were afraid to. With wide, green eyes, he looked back to his brothers and asked, "What's it doing here?"

"Yeah, Rhys, what's a baby doing on our front step?" Alistair asked him.

Rhys shrugged. "A stork?"

Alistair punched his arm.

Meanwhile, Arthur was looking around. For clues or wayward parents, who knew, but he was doing more than his older brothers at least.

"What kind of person would just leave their child out here?" Arthur asked, anger seeping into his tone.

"Bastards," Alistair said.

"Could have been someone else," Rhys supplied helpfully while rubbing his now sore bicep. "Someone could have kidnapped it and reconsidered their life choices."

"Cor blimey, belt up already," Alistair groaned.

"Well we . . . we can't just leave it sitting here," Arthur said. He carefully slid his fingers under the baby's head, and another hand under its back. He raised it, slowly and unsurely at first, but seemed to find some innate parental sense and cradled it in the crook of his arm, settling it close to his chest. Secure in his arms, the baby stared up at Arthur, and the boy stared back, a bit lost.

"Ya sure you got it?" Alistair asked.

"Y-yeah, I think she's—he's fine," Arthur stammered. He lightly bounced the baby, probably mimicking parents he'd seen on TV. "Uh, so what now?" Here he looked to Alistair.

Alistair, though he was nearly twenty six, had never had any experience with babies, not outside of his little brothers. He liked to say how annoying Arthur was as a baby, but the truth was he didn't remember much about it, having been about nine around the time Arthur was born. And with Rhys being nineteen and Arthur seventeen, they hadn't had much to do with little kids either, babies especially. If Patrick were there, he'd probably know what to do. But needless to say, they were in over their heads with this.

"We should call the police," Alistair said, but then second-guessed himself. "Or go to a hospital? It could be sick or hurt for all we know."

Arthur's eyes grew nervous tenfold, and he scanned the baby over with renewed worry.

"Are you hurting?" Arthur asked, stilling his arms so not to potentially cause any pain.

"I don't think it can answer you," Rhys said.

"Rhys, for fuck's sake," Alistair threated. Then he focused on Arthur, "C'mon lad, bring it inside. We'll look 'em over first and see where to go from there."

Arthur nodded, for once not quarreling with the eldest. He entered the house once more, this time carrying a vulnerable weight in his arms, one that he was incredibly mindful of.

Rhys shut the door afterwards. He had taken a step away when he remembered something. He opened the door again, swiped the paper, and returned inside.

* * *

 **This is something that I wrote ages ago and keep coming back to, hoping that the author has written something more. But then I remember. . . Someone please write this for me. This is one of those things that I want to read, not write. *sobs***

 **Sorry there's no more, but I thought this was too funny not to share. Of course England's brothers don't have much said about them in canon, as far as I'm aware, so this is more of me giving them personalities rather than truly basing it off of their countries. I've seen enough fan interpretations of Scotland that it influenced me here, and for Wales, I had a friend who went to Wales and I asked her if Wales was a human, what kind of person would he be. She said he'd be really freaking weird, so there ya go. And for Patrick, I just can't get it out of my head that he's the most sensible one of the bunch, mostly because he has to be, between his crazy brothers. So yeah, take my portrayals with a grain of salt.**


End file.
